María Luisa de la Garza, Luisa Martín Rojo, Miriam Rosas Báez
This ethnographic visit and narrative are part of the action-research carried out within the framework of the European project ReDes_Ling: Resisting Linguistic Inequality (Staff Exchanges, ref. 1011131469). The project aims to analyse and counteract the many forms of linguistic inequality experienced by minoritised speakers and communities. Through exchanges between interdisciplinary research teams and social organisations, we seek to bridge the gap between academic knowledge and societal perceptions and experiences of language.
We set off at sunrise, leaving San Cristóbal de las Casas behind us on the way to Palenque. It was Thursday 19 June 2025. We passed through small pockets of resistance and rebellion — some Zapatista territories and other places where different movements were defending the land or protesting against abusive electricity prices — until we reached the municipal capital of Huixtán. There, we left the asphalt roads behind and, thanks to our guide, Miriam–coauthor of this text-, we headed to the Guadalupe Tepeyac neighbourhood in the Dolores Chempil village, where the local church choir was meeting. A service was to be held in Celepat that Corpus Thursday.
In the chapel, two choir members were already waiting for us: two women with their husbands and daughters. We went with Miriam and Rafael, who were PhD students and part of the choir. They were greeted with recognition and joy as members of the group. We were introduced as Miriam’s teachers: María Luisa and Luisa, the latter being the teacher’s teacher. There, Miriam changed clothes and put the traditional attire of Huixtán, made specially for her by different sewing masters of the community. Not only the dress was a ceremonial wearing, but an element that marked the symbolic belonging to the community. We then realized that we went to a sort of a passing rite, in which Miriam would become symbolically one of them: not only a part of the choir, but to the community in which it forms and in which they play an active role in religious ceremonies.
Once Miriam and the other two women had finished getting ready in their skirts, blouses and embroidered wraps with red and pink flowers, we set off for Celepat. We walked to the place where the mass was held to close the nine-day mourning period for the death of a one-year-old boy who had passed away from an intestinal disease.
Picture 1: Miriam Rosas, guide of the activity.
Picture 2: The Choir of the Guadalupe Hermitage of Dolores Chempil
The mass that was held in the middle of the forest
The ceremony took place in the forest where the cemetery is located, around the tomb of the deceased boy. Scattered on the slopes could be seen the tombs of others. People of all ages were present. The women and girls wore regional attire, while almost all the men wore shirts and jeans. Young boys, although not wearing traditional attire, were wrapped up. Phones were barely visible; there was no service and nobody was recording.
Once we arrived, we greeted everyone, saying ‘buenas tardes’, introducing ourselves and saying ‘encantada de conocerles’ in Spanish. We found out later that the attendees were happy to see the Guadalupe neighbourhood choir, as it was difficult to gather them for Corpus Christi Day, a major event for many churches. We were placed, along with them, on the side.
Picture 3: Arrival at the place of the ceremony.
In the center, in front of the tomb covered in those thin, long pine trees called juncia in Chiapas, there was a table serving as an altar, decorated at its base with flowers and candles. The celebrants were two tuneles, meaning two Tzotzil deacons named by a bishop to say mass in indigenous communities, along with their wives—one of them holding a girl in her arms. The main tunel wore a white shirt and a stole, embroidered with bright colors. According to what we have been told, in this places priests don’t usually give mass, of whom it is said that prefer bigger parishes, maybe closer or maybe because they get more handouts.
The whole community gathered around the baby’s family next to the small tomb and around the altar. During the ceremony, we could see how their indigenous spiritual traditions were interwoven with traditional Catholic elements, which were very different from the traditional Catholic liturgy of the Kaxlanes (as they call white people and mixed-race people). Although it was a mourning ceremony, nine days after the boy’s death, the colourful attire, flowers, green forest and music of the choir also conveyed a sense of affirmation of life.
Singing in Tzotzil and in Spanish
The mass was entirely in Tzotzil, except for a few Spanish phrases in the celebrant’s speech, such as ‘Jesucristo’ or ‘en aquel tiempo’. After the reading of the Gospel, as a gesture of deference towards the two teachers and two PhD students who were present, one of the celebrants addressed ‘those who speak Castilla’ and read the Gospel in Spanish too. This was the only part of the ceremony that we understood, unlike the sermon, which was long and surely addressed hope in the afterlife, as well as perhaps calling for care of the land and communities, and for justice, hospitals nearby and an end to water pollution.
During the ceremony, the choir sang mostly in Tzotzil, but also performed some pieces from the Catholic liturgy in Spanish. All of this was accompanied by guitars, jingles and tambourines, and there were some instrumental pieces. The coordination was subtle, involving chin gestures, raised eyebrows and close attention to small movements. Lupita, a Tzotzil community singer, guided the group on the repertoire, while Rafa oversaw marking the musical cues. As rain threatened, the two teachers stood close together with our umbrellas ready to cover the adult singers and the stand holding all the old pages with the lyrics of the songs. When it began to rain, we opened our umbrellas, finding in this gesture a way to be seen as part of the choir.
Image 4: The choir at the place of the ceremony.
The communion was administered by the deacons and their wives, and after a long list of other deceased was read, maybe as a closure of the grief. After the mass, there was a get together moment in place to accompany the ch’ulelal (the boy’s soul). We all sat on the floor. The youngest, obeying their grandfather—visibly touched, like the father—handed posh, then cola beverages or “of other tastes” and cigarettes. Lupita, sat next to Luisa, asked curiously where she was from. When Luisa replied “from Spain”, she inquired if the trees were like these, and if the people were similar. Luisa told her that, there, people used to dress up darker and was less friendly, and that the trees were similar, but somewhat smaller. She explained that I was supposed to drink what was offered, since it was a gift from the baby’s soul to the living, and her reflections on death had to do with destiny: “He’s not coming back to life, but it is what it is, you cannot do a thing; he’ll be home and in the cemetery”, and added that “now what the baby wants is for us to sing”.
Music to pray and to be thankful for
The funeral rites began in the family’s home, some miles away. We had to travel by car to get there. It was a modest house with low asbestos ceilings and at least one wall with a large crack in it. The main building had two spaces, since the kitchen was in the other side of the patio: one, to sleep, and the other, where we installed and surely was cleared for the occasion, This room had a low table with two virgins dressed in their Huixtecan shawls, two conch shells, an arch made of green palm leaves, and sedge, incense, candles and flowers on the floor. The women sat on large benches surrounding the altar and made room for us. Ana María, the choir’s youngest child, offered us some jingles, called chalchaj, which we gladly accepted to make our presence there more meaningful.
Image 5: María Luisa and Luisa with jingles.
Then, a prayer began, in which the two tuneles and the “principal”, an old prayer man from a nearby town. Before, they had shared a censer among the guests and had “planted” 13 long, slender candles on the floor, scattered in two rows, with bouquets of red flowers by the side, and four other oil lamps behind. The prayer was in Tzotzil, with instrumental music from the choir on the back. The rhythm cadence was almost hypnotical. Then, the “president” of the town’s chapel delivered a speech, of whom we understood that there was room for all religions, that all had a place there; and that’s because, as Miriam later explained, not only could families devoted to other religions be there but that, in general, and although some people there were not catholic, they complied with that spirituality honoring the death. The dad and one of the child’s grandparents also spoke there. With trembling voice, they thanked the tuneles, the principal, the choir and all the attendees, and invited us all to the patio for lunch. There, an older woman sat by our side spoke to us in Tzotzil and, after making clear that we didn’t understand what she was saying, she inquired: “What community are you from?”. We weren’t wearing traditional attire and we didn’t speak the language. She didn’t recognise us and we stammered as we answered.
Image 6: Ceremonial altar.
In the patio, under sailcloth and arranged in two benches on the sides, there were the tables, covered in plastic. The younger women began setting out the food: tortillas, horchata, sauces and a stew made of cow. We sat among the choir and the tuneles, and shared with them what was a first round of food. Around us, more people sat to eat in a second round, while the dogs, thin, almost famished, were getting closer expecting some meat to eat. One of the tuneles, the main one, was an elegant man, known for being close to Zapatism. We chatted with them about the languages they spoke, and we knew that in their marriages there were Tzotzil and Tzeltal speakers, the two prominent languages of the Los Altos region in Chiapas.
Image 7: Gathering for lunch.
After the food, the choir returned to the room that held the altar. They sang some last songs, usual in post-conciliar Catholicism in both sides of the Atlantic, like “Tú has venido a la orilla” and “Adiós, Jesús querido”. We also participated in that closure. After the musicians kept their instruments, we said goodbye to every attendee, one by one, hoping for them to be safe and to take care. All were addressing to us in Spanish.
Image 8: The visitors with the choir.
The music, mediator between differentiated groups
On the house door, we said goodbye to the baby’s mother, barely holding herself. The grandfather, who organized everything, thanked the choir and wanted to give them money which they did not accept. The family had already arranged for a taxi for the most people from the choir; there was no need for anything else. We headed back to the church of Guadalupe Tepeyac, where women changed clothes, and headed back to San Cristóbal.
The music turned out to be a central element of the ceremony, serving as a channel of spiritual expression and as a symbol of the group’s cohesion. That’s why there was such satisfaction when the choir arrived; with them, the community was symbolically complete and seemed to ease the fabric of a mutual caring network. In fact, the generosity and sobriety of all the participants were surprising. And that’s because music, both vocal and instrumental—Miriam told us—is a means of communicating with those who have left this dimension and live in another plane of the Universe, as well as other caring livings of the environment, like God or the “owners” of caves and hills; and also, of course, with the human community that goes with the celebrations of the cycle of life and death with their presence, work and care.
In a world full of material deprivation, the importance of social bonds and community support was clear. Of course, it was about the baby, but it was also about reinforcing mutual presence. Those who have died continue their life on another plane, keep communicating and being part of the community; those who come from outside can, for some hours, be accepted there. In this equilibrium between grief and celebration; between words and silences, between chants in Tzotzil and gestures that guide, you can see who a new way of being in the world is being sewn.
